My Roots Are Grown
by UnnamedElement
Summary: Drabbles that tell who the Fellowship are, and who they have become by the time they parted ways. / 7.Wind: "I am fairly certain I would notice being strangled, Master Elf. It is but an orc-scratch, as I said." "But your eye!" Legolas cried. "I was struck in the face, and it looks like you have been, too...I can take care of myself." (More angst.) / NirCele's 100-Drabbles.
1. Fire: Legolas & Gimli

**Author's Note:** This is my first drabble in NirCele's _100-Drabble Challenge_ ; I obtained the prompt list from LadyLindariel. My drabbles will primarily feature the characters of the Fellowship. For the purposes of this collection, I have challenged myself to constrain these responses to 600 words (longer than a "true" drabble). "Part 1: The Edge of a Knife" is a collection of the first 12 drabbles, focusing on missing moments in the trilogy; all parts/drabbles will likely be posted on this story. Please consider joining this fun and inspiring challenge!

Story title is from The Head and the Heart's song "Cats and Dogs."

 **Disclaimer:** Do not own. Applies to all chapters.

 **Word count:** 549

* * *

 **MY ROOTS ARE GROWN**

* * *

 **PART I: THE EDGE OF A KNIFE  
**

* * *

 **1\. FIRE  
**

* * *

It was like nothing he had ever felt—like a festival bonfire on every side, a taunting ring of fire with no escape. Heat radiated from its center with such vigor that it was as if the very sun spilled its yolk, poured forth like molten steel from a crucible.

But there was no sun above them here.

Here: an eternal darkness, and a fire darker than any sun. A sun that pulled in, destroyed all light, took every remnant of good: memories of leaves backlit with sunlight; cool kiss of rain at the forest's edge; balmy nights, spent with friends, clothed in starlight—his soul was compelled toward it; it would feed off this new despair, crush him under stone—in fire and darkness—condensed forever in the heart of this beast; he panicked—

He knew what it was.

As his skin burned, yet did not, the snaking smoke suffocated him. He heard his own voice gasp, then cry in fear and warning, and the fletching of his arrow caught on a callous as it fell to the stone—it bounced twice and settled like a fallen tree.

 _Ai! ai! A balrog is come!_

Inside him was the aftermath of a forest fire—burned out and crumbling, black and desperate in that moment before the last spark fell, when the ground was not yet cool enough to safely cross: hopeless.

He could not breathe.

He felt Gimli drop his axe and the dwarf cried in recognition. Mithrandir bid them flee, but Boromir and Aragorn, perhaps in ignorance of such horrific lore—or perhaps because they were better men than he—stood still, swords raised like guardsmen.

He shouldered his bow and stumbled backwards. He caught a hobbit under each arm, hauling them round the middle when they did not move. Above the sound of cracking rock was Mithrandir's final command—

 _Fly, you fools!_

—and then Boromir and Aragorn were across the bridge and they stumbled pell-mell up the stairs.

He did not let go of the hobbits until they were out and far away from the sounds and smells and smoke of Moria, and then he fell to his knees and turned his face to the bright clouds and high sun, but dropped it again to cough into his arm.

As he coughed, he noticed dimly that Gimli stood beside him. The dwarf tapped his cheek until he met his eyes—both saw that the other wept.

 _Legolas, drink._

Gimli handed Legolas his own waterskin, and then Legolas cast himself upon the ground with the waterskin on his chest. He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands.

He lay like that for a long time until he heard Gimli shift beside him. Legolas sat up and coughed again. He uncorked the skin and took a sip of water to ease his throat. When he handed the waterskin back to Gimli, he had found his voice.

"Let us help Aragorn, Master Dwarf. You talk to Merry, and I will take Pippin."

Gimli nodded and walked away. Legolas picked up his bow, ran a hand over his face, and breathed deeply. He crossed to the hobbits and placed a gentle hand on Pippin's shoulder.

Pippin curled into him. Legolas bit his lip, and soothed him best he could.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading!_


	2. Pet: Sam & Frodo

**Word Count: 600 words**

* * *

 **2\. PET**

* * *

Sam was happy to be able to do anything for Frodo, now that they no longer pushed toward Mount Doom, and he no longer worried on when he would bury Frodo's body. Sam had thought on it often as they wandered—when Frodo trembled and fell, eyes wide but glazed, picking rocks from worn toes and dropping them from fingers, unfeeling—but Sam did not think he _could_ bury Frodo. Frodo, who had gone farther than anyone should have, and who had dragged Sam along—far _far_ away from the Shire—wholehearted, devoted, willing—with him.

"…the Quest is achieved, and now all is over. I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam."

Sam shook his eyes from the undoing laid out before him. He laughed and fell to his knees, and then Frodo fell beside him like a shadow. They sat facing each other for a moment—silent in their joy and despair—and then they leaned into one another, head on shoulder, head on shoulder.

After some time, Sam pulled away and frowned. He took Frodo's arm in both hands and brought it to himself; he wrapped the bleeding hand in the shirt still on his back. Sam kept Frodo's hand pressed firmly into his stomach with his own, but he could feel the blood saturate his shirt's fabric, and finally run warmly down to his pants' tattered waistband.

Sam dropped dry lips to Frodo's dusted brow as he looked out into the utter ruin, cloaked in swirling dust and an evil, cutting wind. He pet Frodo's hair from crown to forehead, over and over, untangling curls as if he worked the mane of a well-loved packhorse, which, Sam considered—with a surprisingly un-resentful burst of amusement—Frodo very much was.

Frodo: A vessel for the ring. A packhorse with its cargo, and Sam: his reluctant master. Together: A means to the end.

A dry, hot breeze hit Sam's face as he scooted closer to Frodo. He swept the grey cloak of Lorien about their shoulders. For a moment, Sam tasted the sweetness of the light in that place, and his memory brushed deeper—green carrot tops in moist brown soil.

But then it was gone.

Sam swallowed a sigh, or sob, and took that last hopeful memory into his tired lungs. He ran a hand through Frodo's hair again, and his strength left him. He lay down—spent.

It was better that he die here, Sam thought fiercely, alongside Frodo, than he bury his friend in this desolate place—alone!—and then stumble down the mountain to die elsewhere (likewise terribly _terribly_ alone).

They lay now face to face, and breathed.

Frodo's hand twitched against Sam's stomach; he was pulled toward sleep. Sam ran a finger across Frodo's eyebrows to soothe him, and Frodo's eyes came open long enough to raise his uninjured hand to Sam's temple—he wiped blood away from skin.

They would rest here as the darkness burned away—all around them—into light. Later, they could move with all their strength from the mouth of this place and, when hope had finally failed, Sam would stop and close his eyes. He would wait for those silver shores, grass as green as the Shire in May, rolling endlessly on. They would step forward into that land, unfettered and, at last, free.

Frodo had carried the cargo well, Sam protecting his spirit best he could, and this was finally _finally_ the glorious end.

There was a smile, but it was so hot, and the air like poison.

* * *

 _So no one knows where hobbits go when they die because as fastidious as Tolkien is, he is also horrifically vague, so I've given Sam a little of that imagery from Frodo's dream back at Tom Bombadil's (that was later so beautifully paraphrased by Gandalf in PJ's RotK), because why not. The next drabble will be a little more light-hearted. ;) Thank you for reading!_


	3. Transportation:Legolas, Aragorn, & Gimli

**Author's note:** I have been recently frustrated and struggling with writer's block, but a longer one-shot inspired by this drabble is in the works.

 **Word Count:** 213 **  
**

* * *

 **3\. Transportation**

* * *

"Why must you ride without a saddle?"

"Why should a horse wear a saddle?"

"For us to ride on, of course!"

"Of course."

There was silence between them, and then, for a while, just the steady thrum of hooves, and snippets of song stolen by the breeze.

Later, when they dismounted to stretch their legs and eat, Legolas finished his answer.

"One cannot ride two to a saddle; we would not fit."

He laid himself on the ground some distance from his friends, propping his right ankle lightly on his raised left knee—his foot dangled there loosely, and his leg fell outward from the plane of his body in the shape of a pennant; arms crossed tight over his chest, hands cradled elbows.

Gimli dropped his pack to the ground and turned to Aragorn with eyebrows raised.

"He is right," Aragorn said, shrugging.

Gimli sighed.

"He worries for the hobbits, Gimli—in a minute, he will come back to us."

Gimli pulled his cloak around his shoulders and took a bite of lembas.

True to Aragorn's word, Legolas returned to Gimli a few moments later, boundless energy renewed. He was chattering, offering to catch a hare, tell a tale, rub down the horses, scout ahead—anything Aragorn might possibly ask of him.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading thus far!_


	4. Plants: Pippin & Merry

**Word count:** 600

* * *

 **4\. PLANTS**

* * *

" _It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere and have some roots, and the soil of the Shire is deep. Still there are things deeper and higher; and not a gaffer could tend his garden in what he calls peace but for them, whether he knows about them or not. I am glad that I know about them, a little. But I don't know why I am talking like this. Where is that leaf? And get my pipe out of my pack, if it isn't broken."  
—Merry, "The Houses of Healing," __Return of the King_

* * *

Watching Merry pack his pipe filled Pippin with joy.

It was the kind of joy Pippin felt for the first time when he was ten. That winter, he noticed how, every year, the youngest greenfinches fled Tuckborough's gardens for fairer lands. In his tenth year's crispness, he saw that the finches returned only after the last threat of frost, only when certain there was seed enough to thrive and to mate, to build nests, dig deep…

But return they always did.

Pippin remembered well a summer day another year. Merry was nineteen-and-a-half (and thought himself grown indeed). That day, Pippin watched a finch flit toward a sunflower and land on it resoundingly—its tiny body made the great plant sway side to side as if rocked by a wind. Pippin cried out in joy and surprise: "Merry! Would you look at that powerful bird! It moves the world as if to say, 'Summer! It's here!'"

Merry at first only glanced at Pippin and nodded sagely, but he eventually took him by the hand, into the garden. He lifted Pippin to the neck of a sunflower that bent beneath the weight of runaway morning-glories. Held at the waist by his cousin, Pippin freed the giant flower, and its face turned once more to follow the sun.

Pippin had been so worried.

Merry steadied the pipe in his lap with his arm's deadweight; he pressed the last layer of leaf into the bowl with his left thumb. Turning eyes toward Pippin, Merry's brow smoothed, and he slipped his pipe between dry lips.

"They call you the Prince of Halflings, you know," Merry said, vaguely. "I wonder what lies you told them to make them believe that."

"I didn't tell any lies at all!" said Pippin, narrowing his eyes. "Anyway, Merry, do you need help? What did you put in your pipe?"

"Longbottom leaf, Pippin. Have you gone soft in service to the Steward?"

Pippin's hand shot out; he pulled the pipe easily from Merry's grinning lips and sniffed.

"You ass!" Pippin exclaimed. "You mixed in kingsfoil!"

Merry's eyes were soft; he looked kindly on his cousin's disbelief.

"Yes, it is a most useful weed."

Merry sank back into the cot and closed his eyes.

"I suppose it is," Pippin muttered. "But I do not think Strider intended you to _smoke_ it. You are supposed to breathe it _in_ , and he is supposed to say words over you and touch your brow and such."

He pressed the pipe into Merry's hand, and Merry's fingers clutched it weakly. Merry shrugged and quietly spoke.

"Either way, it's in my lungs, Pip."

"I suppose it is, you stubborn fool!" Pippin said, sad and renewed and happy all at once. "Well, you can smoke it later. Sleep now!"

Pippin kissed Merry's brow. Merry smiled and fell into an unlabored sleep.

To Pippin, watching this rest was like a clement breeze; a finch at thistle; strawberries bruised in eager palms at the break of day, dew still clinging to fresh green caps.

 _They were resilient,_ Pippin thought, _stuff of the Shire: strong Bucklanders and Tooks, defenders, now, of Middle-earth._

Pippin leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and felt for Merry's hand.

Their roots were deep, the two of them.

He drank the feel of Merry's fingers in his own like the first rain after a long drought—a balm on his young and weary soul. It turned his face to the sun, and Pippin reached his arms upward; in a dream, he sprang off with Merry like a finch, bound for the Shire's summer light.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a review (or a SWOT analysis, for those of us barreling into the evaluative hell of a nonprofit's 4th quarter-Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities, Threats). ;)_


	5. Threats: Legolas & Boromir

**Word count:** 600

* * *

 **5\. Threats**

* * *

"We are sons of dying realms."

They stood on a wooded hill, some distance from camp.

"Surely you know what I want from you, Legolas. You are quicker than I; together we could end the threat to our lands."

The elf had one hand on his hip, head tilted, and he looked at Boromir with grey eyes like sun-warmed slate, gentle and patient, but hardening.

"You need only—"

"No."

Legolas came close and peered up into Boromir's face with a ferocity Boromir did not recognize.

"Do not speak these folly hopes aloud, son of Gondor," Legolas hissed, hand moving to his knife's handle. "You will find no ally in me."

Boromir moved as if to slap him, but Legolas caught the strong hand as it reached his cheek, and twisted.

"I know you, Boromir. You are not lost."

Legolas dropped his hand and turned away.

"Do _not_ prove me wrong."

Legolas retreated, and Boromir called after him.

"You are gutless, Legolas! You fear what you would _do_ with such power!"

The elf did not turn, and Boromir picked up a stone from the ground.

"To the elves who did not aid your folk; to Aragorn, for giving you Gollum at the first."

Boromir took a step forward.

"If you do not understand why I seek the Ring, Legolas, then you do not know me, nor your people, nor yourself."

Boromir heaved the stone toward Legolas with force.

"You will live to regret this refusal!"

Legolas ducked his head and skipped sideways, so the stone only hit his shoulder. The elf's hand brushed trees and bushes as he passed—they seemed to swell and grow, closing behind him like guardsmen.

A fog lifted from Boromir, and he saw clearly again. He dropped a second stone and cried out in grief; he wrung his hands.

When he finally returned to camp, Boromir heard Legolas' cheerful voice and Pippin's laughter. The elf did not look up from where he sat cross-legged with Merry and Pippin, teaching them sleight of hand. Boromir sat beside Gimli and skinned the rabbit passed to him.

"I will take first watch," Boromir announced.

"No!"

Legolas sprang to his feet, accidentally pulling Merry with him. He turned to Aragorn.

"I will take it."

"Very well," said Aragorn.

Legolas sat again, and cast his eyes, momentarily, to his shoes.

"You see, Peregrin," Legolas eventually restarted, "you must cup your hand like…"

Legolas took Pippin's hand in his and shaped it, but Boromir was not listening; Aragorn leaned in to him and Gimli.

"Legolas is uneasy and the hobbits shrink from the trees," Aragorn said quietly, inclining his head toward them, and then nodding to Frodo and Sam, who slept nearby. "Some of us should take a different road."

"Legolas and the Little Folk?" Boromir asked.

"Perhaps," said Aragorn cryptically. "You did not return with firewood, Boromir. Will you find some now?"

"Of course," said Boromir, rising.

Legolas glanced up to see Boromir disappearing into the gloam. Frodo stirred at Legolas' side and moved, in his sleep, closer to the elf's warmth.

* * *

Several days later, they cast Boromir into the river, toward city and sea. Legolas' voice cracked as he sang, and Aragorn looked on with concern.

Legolas met Aragorn's eyes and shook his head.

It was not madness in Boromir alone, Legolas thought, that had broken them. He had been drawn to Boromir's pain just as he had been to Smeagol and, once again, that misplaced compassion—or something like it—had cost lives.

Gimli patted Legolas' arm, and Aragorn shrugged. Legolas turned away, eyes already to the chase.

* * *

 _I have wanted to write this scene for a while. It was a fun challenge and difficult, as I had to shave off well over 400 words, and wanted to at least acknowledge Boromir's multifaceted character (instead of falling prey to oversimplification)... Please consider dropping a review on your way out._ _Thank you for reading this drabble!_


	6. Water: Frodo, Legolas, & Aragorn

**Author's Note:** This drabble originally started as something quite different, and then became this, maybe to later become something else again, maybe not. It was originally inspired by a few conversations with Finfinfin1 about characterization, conflict and motivation, and language. I encourage you to read Finfinfin1's story about the Doors of Durin ("Masters of Fate") on her page.

 **Word count:** 600

* * *

 **6\. Water**

* * *

Frodo watched Legolas roll his extra tunic and tuck it away, pack stuffed already with poor Bill's rations. Frodo was just noticing how shadows from the elf's unkempt hair chased the curve of his flushed cheeks when Legolas looked up at him sharply, and spoke.

"You are uneasy."

Frodo shrugged.

"I still get an eery feeling from the water."

Grey eyes flicked from pursed lips to creased brow, settling finally on Frodo's bright, worried eyes. Legolas frowned.

"Perhaps hobbits are more like elves than I believed."

"How is that?"

The elf leaned toward him, as if to study their similarities.

"Well," Legolas said, after a moment, placing a hand on Frodo's shoulder, "I do not much like this place either."

Frodo stared, and then nodded; he settled cross-legged by Pippin.

Legolas shouldered his pack and strode past the the Company to Aragorn, who was hunched on a rock, sucking his pipe. Legolas crouched before him and whispered; he jerked his head toward the pool and cocked it to the side.

Aragorn watched the darkness over Legolas' shoulder while he tapped his pipe on the ground. He blew out the ash and slipped pipe in pocket. Finally looking up, he met the elf's eyes, and reached forward.

Frodo watched Aragorn cautiously tuck a lock of knotted hair behind Legolas' ear—he had become disheveled after their encounter with the wolves and had not taken time to tidy himself after Caradhas. He did not exactly _flinch_ as Aragorn's hand brushed his cheek and ear, but his body tensed.

Legolas looked on edge, and that unsettled Frodo.

He seemed to relax when Aragorn whispered in their shared tongue. Legolas returned Aragorn's gaze and shrugged; he glanced away and leapt to his feet, watching the pool with unfocused eyes.

Aragorn called to him. Legolas shook his head and did not turn.

After a time, though, he seemed to sense Frodo's regard and pivoted, shifting his weight forward to move closer, or to speak.

But in that moment, Boromir complained to Frodo and heaved a rock at the water. Legolas' eyes narrowed as it splashed, and he stepped back, hastily, to Aragorn.

Frodo tore his gaze from Boromir as Legolas crossed his arms and leaned close, eyes lowered.

Aragorn hissed severely in Elvish, but then spoke more softly. He turned Legolas' face to his by placing a finger under his chin. Frodo could not hear what was said, but he caught a whisper, a reprimand: _Legolas, you are braver than this._

The elf's nostrils flared and his eyes darkened, before—with the ephemeral abruptness of a sparrow's shadow, darting, cast from overhead—Legolas looked up and smiled. Irreverently, he patted Aragorn's cheek and rocked back onto his heels. Aragorn stared with a mixture of amusement and shock, and laughed.

But then Gandalf exclaimed and the doors opened and, all at once, great _things_ came from the water: Aragorn leapt forward; Boromir seized Frodo's waist, but he was caught already, and tumbling. Pippin, Sam, and Merry rushed forward blindly, shoved through the doors by Gimli; Aragorn tugged an arrow from Legolas' fingers and pulled at his wrist.

And then they were in.

Pippin gasped beside Frodo. Legolas whispered a prayer, and—perhaps in response—Gandalf lit his staff.

Frodo watched the wizard's light play at Legolas' brows. The elf's lips were pressed together tightly, his wide eyes glassy.

And then Frodo knew.

Aragorn shoved past them to speak with Gandalf, and Frodo saw the ranger's hand flit across Legolas' back, reassuring.

The door must have collapsed.

They were trapped—there was no way out.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading!_


	7. Wind: Gimli, Legolas, & Gandalf

**Author's note:** I have broken my rigidly self-imposed rule of a maximum 600 words per drabble-I am impatient and did not want to fool with this anymore!

This is based loosely on "The Road to Isengard" ( _The Two Towers),_ and takes advantage of an arguably murky transition after Aragorn says, "I will tend it, while you rest." However, this little piece is also _heavily_ rooted in my largely unpublished Mirkwood Series (of which _To Rekindle Hearts_ is a the only complete and published part) and the backstories therein; as such, it may be considered separate from the rest of the drabbles up to this point.

 **Word count:** 1276

* * *

 **7\. WIND**

* * *

When Legolas finally saw him again at the Deeping-stream, Gimli's head had been knocked and was bleeding. While Aragorn offered immediate assistance, Gimli sidestepped Aragorn's ministrations and sent him with Théoden to deal with more urgent things. That left Gimli alone, though, with Legolas, and he felt markedly uncomfortable as his friend's eyes—suddenly alien and strange—swept assessingly over his frame.

Gimli cleared his throat, and Legolas reached a hand to Gimli's neck; blood-stained fingers hovered there lightly, just behind his beard. He stared into the brown eyes, one of which was bloodshot, and then began to palpate Gimli's neck and throat. Legolas worked his way down the larynx and pressed out along the collarbones, tracing each trapezius to the back of his neck.

Legolas pushed aside Gimli's braid and bent very close. Nimble fingers gently probed vertebrae and rubbed small circles between each joint, and he felt the elf's breath on his back as he worked.

When a gust of rain-scented wind tossed the Legolas' hair into his face, the elf stepped back, surprised, and Gimli took the opportunity to spin around, waiting as Legolas dipped his head and twisted his hair into a loose knot.

When the elf finally raised his head, his eyes were dark and wide, and he looked marginally scared, Gimli thought, and rather distant. Legolas reached out again, this time to pull at Gimli's ear and peek at the skin behind it, and Gimli finally sighed and batted away Legolas' hands.

"Legolas, stop wasting your time," he said. "I promise you that I have not been strangled or anything of the sort."

Legolas blinked and stepped suddenly back; he crossed his arms, and tilted his head to the side as he spoke.

"Are you certain?"

"I am fairly certain I would notice being _strangled_ , Master Elf. It is but an orc-scratch, as I said."

"But your eye!" Legolas cried.

"I was struck in the face, as it looks like you have been, too," Gimli said, observing the bruise that darkened the elf's jaw. "I was not strangled while I was away from you for so few hours. I can take care of myself."

"I know."

Gimli was quiet for a few moments.

"Though I do appreciate the concern, my friend."

He was silent for a moment more, then: "Legolas, why did you think I was choked?"

"Your voice sounds harsh, and it frightened me to see your eyes so."

Gimli frowned at the prompt response. Legolas shifted his weight minutely from one foot to the other, and Gimli noted how the long hands wrapped more tightly around his biceps as he watched—something did not feel right.

"Has someone hurt you like that, Legolas?"

"No," the elf said evenly, looking in Gimli's darkening eyes before glancing away toward the forest. "Not on purpose, they have not."

Gimli crossed his arms, too, and raised his eyebrows, skeptical.

"Strangling is a fairly intentional act, Legolas."

"One would think. But it does not matter, friend Gimli. I have lived a long time and seen many things, so I am just glad you are hale with your sturdy legs beneath you! I did not want to have to worry myself with mourning you."

Gimli patted Legolas on the shoulder. He allowed the elf to kneel beside him and tug him to the ground, to lean close again and inspect his cheek. But Gimli surprised Legolas by speaking directly into his ear.

"Your words are riddles, though not as witty as I have become used to—you are tired, Master Elf."

Gimli's voice was stern but his eyes were kind, and when Legolas pulled back to look into them, he seemed to deflate. The gentleness was undoing.

"I am weary," Legolas conceded, and shrugged.

At that moment, Gandalf appeared; he was guiding Aragorn firmly, with a hand on his shoulder. Gimli noticed that Aragorn did not at all look pleased, and that he sighed when Gandalf came to a stop beside the kneeling elf.

The wizard swatted lightly at the back of Legolas' head, and spoke.

"Shoo, Legolas Greenleaf! Take Aragorn back to the Keep and sleep. I will tend to our friend and return him to you. You do not need to be here."

Legolas started and looked up at Gandalf with wide eyes and, without a word of argument, nodded. Legolas rubbed absentmindedly at his nose, and squeezed Gimli's hand before standing.

"Go," Gandalf said again, taking Legolas and Aragorn both by the shoulders and shoving them toward the Keep.

"Go on, now," Gimli agreed, teasing. "I would rather have a wizard with me than you, Aragorn, or an elf who is afraid—in battle!—of being choked."

Legolas' shoulders stiffened slightly, and Gandalf cut his eyes toward Gimli, who watched as Aragorn and Legolas meandered away through the mess. He heard the wizard's slight shift and turned back.

"It is a scary thing, Gimli," Gandalf reprimanded softly, "and it looks to me like you know it, though perhaps you deny it out of courtesy to your friend. Do not make light of death."

Gimli looked away from Gandalf's face and thought. He saw Aragorn stop to move several orc-bodies from the path, and then Legolas yanked an arrow from one of them and slipped it into his quiver.

Gandalf _humph_ ed and took a step forward; he waved his arm, and a sudden gust of wind barreled across the distance—it blew Aragorn's hair into his face and sent Legolas into a flurry. The elf spun round and glared at the wizard; Gimli chuckled. The pair began to walk once more, and neither stopped again—nor slowed at all—until they reached the wall.

Gimli shook his head, watching the natural wind tug at the wizard's eyebrows.

"Yes, well," he said, "I have learned today something about how I want to live, and how I do not want to die. What worries Legolas so?"

"Is it not obvious, Gimli son of Glóin?" Gandalf asked, with a vague smile. "Legolas loves you—you are like a brother. And he does not love lightly, I assure."

Gimli licked a finger and rubbed at a dried spot of blood on his forehead that was causing him to itch.

"Someone he loved hurt him once," Gimli stated with a frown.

"Indeed," said Gandalf. "And he is yet young, though he may not seem it, and a Wood-elf. As such, he cannot always corral his responses."

"What happened?" Gimli asked; he unbraided his beard and ran fingers through it, before tucking it under his mail and looking back up at Gandalf, expectantly.

"It is not my place to tell."

"You tell enough else without censor," he murmured.

Gandalf waved a hand dismissively, and his white sleeve rippled like a standard as he gently touched Gimli's shoulder.

"I will tend you," said Gandalf, "and then I will send you back to Aragorn and Legolas, and you will sleep. And only when you are rested will we leave this place for Isengard. Do not let Aragorn run around playing healer, nor allow Legolas to yet clear the battlefield—it is not healthy for any of you, and I require you here and whole, for Aragorn's sake."

Gimli nodded. He understood—now was not the time to worry on the past, when they had enough worry, already, for the future.

"Rest," Gandalf said.

Gimli heaved a sigh and rubbed his throat. He looked up into Gandalf's old eyes—they were pale as shallow water over sparkling mica-schist, cut through with sunlight in a mountain lake.

"Rest," Gimli agreed.

He laid himself back, and allowed Gandalf to tend him.

* * *

 _Thank you for reading! Please consider taking the time to review! (Also, thank you to those guests who have reviewed.)  
_


End file.
